Facades
by the sleepy queen
Summary: Help yourself and heaven will help you. Snapshots from the life of Walburga Black.


Written for Round 8 of the Quidditch League Competition.

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_Aide-toi et le ciel t'aidera.  
_Help yourself and heaven will help you.

**i.**

Walburga Black was ten and loved her father more than anyone in the world.

In the evenings, after dinner, she would follow him to his study and sit across from him a too-large velvet chair.

When Pollux read the latest Wizarding journals, Walburga read too. She'd fall into stories about beautiful blonde princesses and the handsome pureblood wizards there to save their damsels from the clutches of dirty muggles.

When he wrote letters to his business partners, she wrote letters too. With large, clumsy letters accompanied with truly terrible illustrations, Walburga told her Daddy about her never-boring days playing with the cat and picking flowers in the garden and avoiding Mum when she was in one of her moods.

When he prayed about the problems his children never knew about, Walburga prayed too. She solemnly imitated her father to the best of her ability, clasping her tiny hands together and shutting her eyes tight. She prayed for the elves to stop cooking beets and for her brothers to come home from Hogwarts and for her Daddy to tell her a bedtime story.

To her, God was a man far away who looked vaguely like her father, except with a longer beard and whiter hair (he was also usually less round). She didn't think to ask any questions about Him; Daddy told her he existed and that was good enough for his favorite (and only) daughter.

**ii.**

Walburga Black was sixteen and Daddy was at St. Mungos.

Pollux Black had always been sickly, but never like this. This sickness was unexpected and inevitable, crawling through his veins so quietly that no one noticed until he was hacking up his lungs.

It was Christmas break when Kreacher found his master collapsed on the floor of his bedroom (his, because Irma hadn't shared his bed for over a decade) laying in a pool of blood and bile. The eldest Black was still breathing.

The cold December air outside the hospital was crisp, a definite contrast to the muggy waiting room Walburga'd been stuck in for hours. Mum hadn't quit wailing, Cygnus was staring fixedly at the wall, and Alphard (the little git) was fast asleep without a care in the world.

And Walburga had needed some air.

She stood still on the crowded road, curling her fingers around her wand, ignoring the clueless muggles pushing their way past her. They didn't know she could destroy them with a word. She could destroy herself with a word if she wanted to, leaving a pile of golden hair on the cracked cement.

Walburga wondered where God was. For once in her life, she needed Him for something more important than broccoli, and He was no where to be found. She could see her own thoughts walking at a steady pace ahead of her, just out of reach, but she couldn't see God.

**iii.**

Walburga Black was twenty-five and pining for a love.

Instead, she slept in an empty bed more often than not. Her cousin- no, husband- would slink into bed at one or two in the morning and drape himself on top of her, reeking of cheap firewhiskey and stale smoke. She would close her eyes and pretend to be asleep.

Orion was good-looking. Much better looking than her. He could have easily seduced more beautiful women (and did, frequently). According to everyone, Walburga, with her knobby knees and big nose and bulgy eyes, was lucky to have such a handsome husband. But she could see the disgust veiled in his eyes, the unmistakable unhappiness whenever he looked at her.

His hands always felt clammy against her flesh, more like frog skin than human flesh. She hated it when Orion touched her and she hated it more when he didn't. When he stumbled home at six in the morning, covered with the smell of wisteria and a shade of lipstick she didn't own. She wondered if her father had a mistress. Probably. That was what marriage was like. Even (or especially) perfect pureblood marriage.

Instead of preoccupying herself with questions whose answers she didn't want to know, Walburga read novels. Hundreds of them. The trashiest romances she could find, the ones aimed at middle-aged witches trapped in unhappy marriages (she was only twenty-five and already a middle-aged witch).

She wisked herself away, hiding in stories about beautiful blonde princesses and the handsome pureblood wizards there to save their damsels from the clutches of dirty muggles, wishing desperately for that kind of love. The kind of love so passionate it could burn a theater to the ground, so bright it could blind the sun.

But, no matter how desperate her wishes, they were never prayers. She couldn't ask God to save her from her perfect pureblood marriage. The marriage forged in the blood that flowed through her veins.

**iv.**

Walburga Black was twenty-seven and the bundle cradled in her arms wouldn't stop screaming.

He- not _it_ anymore- was wrinkled and red, his tiny little face contorting almost grotesquely. She rested it on her lap, her hands suddenly too tired to carry the infant any longer.

She was supposed to love this tiny human, love him unconditionally, love him more than she loved herself. She was supposed to tend to him, water him, ensure he blooms- so that when he grows up, he can tell the world he was made from his mother's loneliness, molded by her sadness.

The infant's screams grew louder, piercing her eardrums. It was bad luck to cast a silencing spell on a baby. It was a good thing Walburga didn't have her wand. It wouldn't do for their beautiful (disgusting) pureblood heir to be cursed, even if it was only a curse of superstition.

The screams were unyielding. Was she supposed to be able to discern them? Was that motherhood? Were all children this damn loud? Even God could hear him, Walburga reckoned. This child could be heard across the cosmos.

She wondered what he would pray for. Perhaps for a mother who could pray for him (Walburga wouldn't).

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